I love books. Not just reading them, but buying them and arranging them creatively on the many bookshelves in my home. I do not subscribe to the rule that books must be stacked side-by-side, titles all facing the same direction, from largest to smallest or *gasp* in alphabetical order by the author’s last name. What am I, a library? Please. How very ordinary.

No, I prefer my books to be tidy, but in no way organized. The only rule I have is that books with similar colored covers NOT be grouped together. That would be racist. In fact, there is little rhyme or reason to my book arranging style, except that aesthetically, I like them to look pretty. I have a gift for artistic spatial configurations, meaning I can arrange the hell out of a bunch of flowers and no one can touch me when it comes to making a collage.*

Yesterday, I treated myself to a trip to Barnes and Noble. I didn’t really need a new book, as I am currently reading three simultaneously, but I am of the belief that one can never have too many books. Who knows when the apocalypse will come, taking with it all of the entertainment we currently take for granted (e.g. television, movies, the internet, etc.). Anything needing electricity or batteries will become useless and the only devices with which we will have to distract us from the never-ending doom and despair will be books. The impending apocalypse is one of the main reasons I haven’t purchased a Kindle. I can’t tell you how pissed I’d be if all of the books I wanted to read suddenly became unavailable because the world had no more batteries.

For those of you who don’t have a clue as to what I am talking about, the Kindle is a “wireless reading device.” Essentially, it’s like a Game Boy for books. The allure of the Kindle is it’s light-no more carpal tunnel syndrome when trying to read a book over 1000 pages. It also has the handy capability of increasing or decreasing the font size, in case you forget your reading glasses. And, of course, it’s super eco-friendly since no trees were harmed in its production. (You don’t use trees to make computer chips, do you?) The downside of Kindle is it’s expensive. Sure, it’s great for travel, but who can afford to do that anymore?

For me, though, and it’s ultimately the reason I will never own a Kindle, it’s that once you’ve finished a book, you have nothing to show for it. There’s something deeply satisfying about finishing a book and then placing on the bookshelf next to all the other books you’ve read. It’s like a big check mark on the “To Do List” of life. It’s almost as good as a medal or a plaque signifying your accomplishment. There it is, plain as day, for all the world to see: I can read.

Sometimes, once I’ve finished a book, I will choose to share it with others rather than display it. Not that the books I choose to share are particularly better than the ones I keep, in fact, usually the opposite is true. Even more so when a book is by one of my favorite authors. Sorry, Charlie, but you’re just going to have to haul your lazy butt to B&N if you want to read something by David Sedaris or Christopher Moore. Or, if you’re not in any particular hurry, you could always order a copy online. Be forewarned, however, visiting a site like Amazon.com could result in a phenomenon I call the “Suggestion Shopping Spree,” or S³ for short.

The S³ is mostly restricted to online shopping, but it can also occur when visiting a store in person. The sure fire way to activate In-Store S³ is to solicit assistance from one of those oh so helpful sales associates at the customer service desk. If you simply cannot locate a book on your own, and you are left with no other choice than to ask for help, be prepared to purchase more books than you originally intended to, particularly if the book you really want isn’t in stock. Little Miss Helpful will have you traipsing from Literature to Biography with stops along the way in Humor, Self-Help, and, as usually it is in my case, Young Adult, before you eventually find your way to the cashier.

I don’t know what happened to the “Fiction” section of the book store, but it no longer exists. What was “Fiction” is now fifteen separate subdivisions including, but not limited to, Romance, Mystery & Crime, Poetry, Essays, Graphic Novels, and Science Fiction. Forget about locating the “Non-Fiction” section, either. It is ten times as disjointed and scattered willy nilly about the store. I mean, I get that B&N want to trick you into buying more books than you need, but making it virtually impossible to locate the books that I specifically came in to buy is not only completely frustrating, but very rude.

Do you know where they hide the Sedaris? In the “Essay” section. Essay? Really? So, why is it then, that all the Augusten Burroughs are in the “Biography” section alongside everything Jen Lancaster has ever written? Shouldn’t Jen at least be in the “Humor” section? And, really, aren’t they ALL just real-life tales recounted with razor sharp sarcasm and wit? If B&N wanted to make my life simpler, they would have a section called “Sarcasm and Wit.” Then, I could simply go straight to what I am ultimately looking for. Unfortunately, their “Sarcasm and Wit” section is currently labeled “Humor,” and includes close to a thousand volumes of assorted “Bathroom Books” all written by someone named Uncle John.

And, do you know what other section B&N could create to, again, simplify MY life? A “Chick Lit” section. Just take all the Elizabeth Young, Meg Cabot, Jennifer Weiner, Carole Matthews, Marian Keyes, Sophie Kinsella, et al, and give them their own special place. That way, when I am bending over, trying to see if there’s a new Jane Green, my ass is not in some pretentious prick’s face perusing the vast selection of Graham Greene titles. Not that there’s anything wrong with Graham Greene, it’s just that I can’t help but feel utterly frivolous picking up a copy of Mr. Maybe when some dude is deciding between The Power and the Glory and The End of the Affair.

Hence, why I do most of my book shopping online. I can find what I want by simply typing that special title into the search box. Voila! The exact book I am looking for magically appears on my screen and I am good to go. Well, unless I make the costly mistake of not immediately pressing the “Check Out Now” button, and scroll down the page. Inevitably, it is at this juncture that I fall victim to S³. I always start to scroll with the best of intentions, I swear. Maybe I’m just a few dollars short of qualifying for free shipping. Or perhaps the book I want is part of a trilogy, and if I am buying one, why not just buy them all? Whatever the reason, I rarely escape the lure of the S³.

On each Amazon.com page, there are no less than four separate S³ traps. If you’ve ever purchased anything from them, you will surely recognize the following suspects:

• “Best Value”
• “Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought”
• “What Do Customers Ultimately Buy After Viewing This Item?”
• “Listmania!”
• “So You’d Like To…”

All of these categories could easily be named “Buy This Too” since that’s what their sole purpose is. But Amazon.com conceals their purely profit-driven tactics under the guise of being helpful. Yeah, help you spend more money.

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I find it useful to see what other readers are reading who read the books that I enjoy reading (and that’s a lot of reading). But much like the poorly named “Genius” on iTunes, rarely do the suggestions match my personal tastes. Just because I like Radiohead (I do) does not in any way, shape or form indicate that I like Coldplay (I don’t). The same is true for books. Even crappy “Chick Lit.” I prefer my crappy “Chick Lit” to have a British accent, transforming it into “Brit Chick Lit.” You see, I am not completely without standards. Good taste, possibly, but standards, never.

*I don’t think there are enough collages in the world. There was a time in high school when collages were my main form of communication. If there was a boy I fancied, I’d make him a collage. And, if I was completely besotted, a mixed tape. So, if you grew up in and around the ‘sades, and you ever awoke to a poster board plastered in magazine clippings and/or a mixed tape waiting for you at your front door, it was probably me.

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